


lightless thunder

by Anonymous



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 23:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21279230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/





	lightless thunder

Nobunaga sinks her teeth into Okita’s throat, tasting the bittersweet mingling of summer rain against Okita’s flesh. Inside, they haven’t escaped the humidity; they’ve long since stripped down, but still it clings to them, as immediate as the puffs of breath escaping them. Even Nobunaga, who knows heat in a way so intimate that it might as well be part of her flesh, can’t stand it. The best they can do is replace this heat with their own. That’s what Nobunaga does, sucking patches of inflamed red into Okita’s neck, drawing stutters of her breath and little gasps that for once have nothing to do her sickness. That too is forgotten; there’s only Nobunaga, her teeth grazing the throaty hum of Okita’s voice, and the pattering of the rain outside.

“Nobu…” Okita reaches down blindly. Her hand finds the raised and jagged scar that runs across half of Nobunaga’s stomach. She’d expected to brush up against Nobunaga’s thighs, but Nobunaga is different tonight-- she’s taken the form of her larger, older self, the better to carry Okita out of the rain. That’s one of the perks of being the Demon King, being able to change on a whim. The other-- Okita lets her hand slip a little lower, and Nobunaga’s eyes flare wide with sudden intentness. Against the rippling canvas of her long red hair and bathing in the lightning ripping through Kyoto’s skies, her eyes could be anything from lantern lights to a very demon’s eyes, burning straight into Okita’s soul. 

“Teasing me when I’m like this, Okita?” This Nobunaga’s voice dips just a little deeper, and that too sends shivers racing along Okita’s spine. “You know how dangerous that is.” Nobunaga relinquishes her hold on Okita’s shoulders, pinning her to the futon. There’s no denying the air of menace that hangs around this form of Nobunaga’s, less present in all the others. Okita doesn’t know if it’s the sharp slant of her jaw or the way her narrowed eyes gaze upon Okita’s naked form before her, no less affectionate, but so much more deliberate. 

“I am Okita Souji, First Captain of the Shinsengumi,” Okita replies evenly. “There’s no reason I should fear-” Her voice jumps up an octave; her hips jerk against the weight settling between her thighs, rubbing with agonizing slowness against her clit. Okita grinds her teeth together, turning her head to the side. The bites Nobunaga’s left on her shine clear even in the dim lamplight, but this level of vulnerability is better than leaving herself open to being read by Nobunaga. That would end things far too quickly, and Okita is determined not to let Nobunaga gloat, as she’s prone to doing when she’s changed her form.

“You were saying?” Nobunaga hangs low over Okita, her hair draping over her shoulders and covering them both. Okita’s heart races faster; she can hardly lift her eyes to Nobunaga’s. Her world has shrunk into this miniscule space, the air between them thick with harsh breaths and Nobunaga’s smoldering stare, red hair like curtains cutting off the rest of reality. Like this, Okita feels every shift of Nobunaga’s weight, each caress of skin to skin, the unbearably exquisite feeling of Nobunaga rutting against her with just enough force to keep herself from sliding into Okita. 

“Nobu.” Okita balls up her fist, clutching equal amounts sheets and Nobunaga’s hair. Nobunaga laughs, a sound that sends Okita’s hair standing on end and her throat clenching, like static in the air before the roar of lightning. Okita doesn’t plead, nor does she yield, but even she can’t deny that whatever Nobunaga brings to their bed is contagious, and Okita can’t help taking in some of it. She gives Nobunaga a tug, pretends her cheeks aren’t flushed and her every emotion dancing with the heaving of her chest for Nobunaga to see. “H-hurry up already.”

“Hmm, if that’s what you want!” Nobunaga grins, and there she is, the Nobunaga that Okita’s most familiar with, the one small enough to fit into her arms at any moment. Then she’s gone; then Nobunaga is biting down on her lip and lifting her head back as her hands close around Okita’s waist, holding her steady. 

The lamps in the corners of the room blaze with the light of setting sunbeams reflected off the mountaintops. Okita squeezes her eyes shut against them, and feels Nobunaga’s thighs come to a gentle rest against her own. Nobunaga leans down, runs a hand through Okita’s hair, drinks in the scent that she says Okita reminds her of, cherry blossoms swirling in midday breezes. A short nod from Okita is Nobunaga’s cue to move again, a measured retreat and a barely contained thrust, Nobunaga’s breathing coming in sharp bursts like rounds of rifle fire. 

“Don’t treat me like you’ll break me,” Okita huffs, her voice tight and strained. They have some conversation like this every time. Okita knows her own body best, but Nobunaga knows well what the mantle of the Demon King entails, what being known by such a name implies. Nobunaga knows, too, what Okita’s competitive side can lead her to; she watches her face for any flicker of pain, but all she finds is the calming amber that she loves so dearly, slowly clouding over as Nobunaga drives them both towards a peak from which there is no graceful descent.

“Okita.” Nobunaga is not known for patience or restraint; it’s most obvious when she’s like this, embodying the fullness of the Demon King. What Nobunaga doesn’t mention is her unfamiliarity with this form, visible only in moments of misjudged distances and now, feeling a foreign heat clenched tightly around her own, each quiver of Okita’s body like a shot of hot sake straight to her gut. Okita’s throaty whimpers crash sweet against her ears, the sweat beading on her jaw collected with a long swipe of Nobunaga’s tongue, as intoxicating as anything drunk from Nobunaga’s skull cup. 

Okita knows what that high tremble in Nobunaga’s voice means. Her knees dig against Nobunaga’s sides; her ankles cross and lock behind her back, lightly brushing a pale tangle of scars. A quick nod; Nobunaga’s mouth collides with hers, tongues twisting ravenously around, guided by the angry maelstrom churning into existence between them. Nobunaga hardly separates from Okita now, pressing her hard into the futon. 

A muffled groan is Okita’s only warning before Nobunaga’s heat sears itself into her insides, Nobunaga herself lost to the untold ravages of sensations rarely felt. Her jaw hangs open, and for a few moments, all she does is pant into Okita’s ear, unaware of Okita’s fingers working their way down the rigid slope of her spine. 

Another few breaths, and Nobunaga comes back to herself. A tilt of her head shakes hair in front of her face, breaking eye contact with Okita. Carefully, delicately, she extricates herself from between Okita’s legs. Okita doesn’t miss the stab of air that slips through Nobunaga’s clenched teeth, pride rising along with the growing heat in her cheeks. She’s had an effect on Nobunaga, too, though Nobunaga would never admit this if Okita pressed.

“Ah,” Nobunaga breathes, tilting her head back. Her throat rises as she takes in one long breath after the other. “Okita. Ah, I’ve made a mess of you, haven’t I?”

“It’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before,” Okita mutters, rolling onto her side. A twinge of residual warmth sparks between her legs, and she jerks her head away before Nobunaga can notice the widening of her eyes. “I don’t wanna take a bath now. It’s too hot.”

“You’re not getting my futon dirty!” Nobunaga sounds squeakier, closer than usual. The futon shifts as Nobunaga crawls in beside her. Okita waits for the thump of Nobunaga’s body in the space beside her, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she feels a warmth against her knees, pushing them apart. 

“Huh?” Okita glances up, finding only ceiling. Nobunaga, her hair black again, grins at Okita from the makeshift tent made of the covers and Okita’s parted legs. “Nobu?” 

“Gotta clean you up somehow,” Nobunaga laughs. Her fingers drum impatiently against Okita’s legs. “So?”

“Nobu…” Okita groans, but she doesn’t protest. What she won’t admit to Nobunaga- that perhaps she’s making up for lost time not only when she fights, but in these moments spent with Nobunaga, too. Her hand, once again, drifts downward. Nobunaga meets it with her own, takes it, squeezes. A nod, and Nobunaga ducks out of Okita’s sight. Another breath, and Nobunaga’s name leaves Okita’s lips in an endless stream, arcing with her back towards the ceiling, drowned out by the heat and the rain and the pleasant haze that settles over Okita, as natural and right in her chest as Kyoto’s air. 


End file.
